Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sharp ring of steel on steel echoed from the small forge at the edge of the Red Keep's training yard.
Inside the cramped space stood Gaemon, King Jaehaerys, Prince Aemon, and Prince Baelon. Their presence made the already tight workshop feel positively crowded.
King Jaehaerys stood a few paces away, watching his youngest son—now a full head taller and shirtless from the heat—swing the heavy hammer again and again onto the glowing steel.
No one spoke. They simply waited in silence as Gaemon worked, each strike shaping the blade that would soon be tested.
Forging a truly fine weapon was no quick task. Quenching, tempering, reheating, hammering—the cycle repeated over and over. The afternoon sun had already begun to sink, painting the sky in hues of amber and gold, before Gaemon finally finished shaping the steel blank. Even then, the most delicate work still lay ahead: the hilt, guard, and finishing details.
Gaemon quenched the blade one last time, then handed the cooled steel to his father.
King Jaehaerys ran his fingers slowly along the cold metal, tracing the elegant W-shaped ripples that flowed across the surface like frozen waves. His violet eyes lingered on the beautiful pattern.
"Lovely ripples," he murmured. "Did you create this design yourself?"
Gaemon nodded without hesitation, a touch of pride in his voice. "Yes, Father. What do you think?"
Jaehaerys's expression softened into deep approval. "Very fine work indeed. I have already tested the sword you made for Baelon. In hardness and sharpness it surpasses the best work of any master smith in the realm. It may still fall a little short of true Valyrian steel, but it is already among the rarest and finest blades alive. You have done very well, Gaemon."
Gaemon accepted the praise openly, his smile growing bolder.
While father and son shared the moment—praise given and received without false modesty—Prince Aemon finally voiced the question that mattered most: how exactly they intended to turn Dragonsteel into real power and profit. Simply selling the weapons outright would be a terrible waste of their greatest advantage.
In Westeros, where martial prowess was everything, and even in the trade-driven cities of Essos, every lord and wealthy merchant dreamed of owning a Valyrian steel blade. Yet such weapons were vanishingly rare. Almost none ever appeared on the open market. The few that existed were passed down as family heirlooms among ancient houses or kept as treasured gifts among the richest merchant princes and magisters. Very few ever saw actual battle.
But that was the reality of a world where the secret of forging Valyrian steel had been lost with the Doom. Only in Qohor did the old re-forging techniques still survive, guarded as the city's most precious secret. The Qohorik smiths kept their methods locked away, strictly controlling every craftsman and forbidding any knowledge from leaving the city.
With no hope of obtaining true Valyrian steel, most men made do with ordinary iron. Only the greatest master smiths, relying on long experience, could occasionally produce good steel weapons—but these were expensive, slow to make, and far too rare for widespread use.
One only had to look at a knight's full plate harness to understand the cost: even the simplest set of quality mail, gorget, and helm cost eight hundred silver stags—roughly four gold dragons.
By comparison, a fine tavern meal of mutton, duck, buttered peas, oat bread, and four mugs of ale cost just one silver stag, with a few copper bits given back in change.
In Westeros the old saying held true: it took the labor of three hundred smallfolk to support a single knight. And the most expensive part of that knight was always his armor and weapons.
So for Gaemon and his family, the real question was how to sell Dragonsteel at the highest possible value.
"I believe the true worth of Dragonsteel cannot be measured by price alone," Gaemon said, breaking the thoughtful silence. "We must give it the aura of glory and prestige. Only then will its rarity truly shine."
"An aura of glory?" Baelon echoed, puzzled. "Can a weapon carry that?"
"Why not?" Gaemon replied. "Is Blackfyre not the very symbol of our family's glory? It represents royal power and martial might."
The others nodded slowly as understanding dawned. Just as Blackfyre stood for House Targaryen, Ice represented the Starks of Winterfell—both weapons were far more than steel; they were living symbols of their houses' honor and strength.
Seeing their reaction, Gaemon continued. "Rare things command higher prices. The more people desire something, the more they will pay. We simply need to control the forging process and keep the secret within our family. From that day forward, Dragonsteel will become a golden mine that pours endless wealth into House Targaryen. By carefully limiting production, we can keep demand high and reap the rewards for generations."
"When market prices are low, we reduce output. When prices rise, we release more. This way, no matter how the market fluctuates, we stay in control and our riches keep flowing. It's the perfect method."
The others' eyes lit with excitement. Even Baelon couldn't contain himself. "Brilliant! If we brand Dragonsteel as a royal symbol and control how many are made, we'll have both glory and gold!"
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